Longing
by yamimitsukai
Summary: Crowley sat alone in his office, unwanted emotions rolling through him like a tsunami as one of the few remaining things that linked him to his past lay shattered in front of him. Good Omens Crossover, slight spoilers if one hasn't been watching Season 8


(Supernatural Crowley and Good Omens Crowley are one and the same here. Don't take this seriously, I was having a bad day and writing just made things a bit more bearable.))

* * *

Crowley sat down heavily in his chair, his fingers grabbing forlornly at a cup of tea, ginger spiced with a hint of chime, just how Az- just how one of his associates used to enjoy it.

He had just gotten back from that stupid family that used to live in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, surrounded by nothing but pasture and horses. _Bloody idiots the lot of them were_, Crowley had muttered to his accomplice, some no name demon that thirsted to win Crowley's favor. Fat chance of that ever happening if the bloke was just that unremarkable.

Crowley carefully set down the mug, clasping his fingers and resting his forehead on the knuckles, forcing his breathes to remain even and steady.

_Those dumbasses killed her!_ A voice shrieked inside his head.

"Shut up." Crowley whispered.

_They killed her, last beautiful reminder of the past, of Aziraphale, of ducks, of lunches, of happiness!_ There was something akin to despair growing in Crowley's chest. He needed the stupid voice in his head to be quiet, to shut up, and let him _think_, to plan for whatever moves those so-called heroes of the world would consider doing next. He couldn't be burdened with the past. It was over, it was done, and nothing would change time.

_ I want her back! I want him back! I want my plants, my things. I want to be happy._

The voice sounded close to tears, a feeling Crowley hurriedly pushed down and locked away.

His loyal hellhound, Growley, had been brutally gutted from her jaw down to her belly, the liquid that made up her insides splattered almost poetically on the ground. She had still been alive, barely, whimpering pathetically, unable to move or die since the blood that run through the veins had no purpose of keeping a nonexistent heart beating; it just kept a hellhound's form as a physical entity. Crowley had knelt down on the ground, his companion banished to some part of hell to keep him busy, and pulled his pet's, -his _friend's_-, head on his lap, whispering nonsense and stroking her head.

More than four thousand years, she had been at his side. Almost five thousand years of constant companionship all wiped away because of two psychopathic brothers. With a heavy heart, Crowley uttered the spell to undo the binding, to let the body disassemble itself back into the vapors of the deep caverns of hell.

Now Crowley sat in his chair, his fingers grabbing at his hair, trying to quell a voice, his _own_voice that cried out his doubts, angers, and fears.

His hatred of what he had become and was becoming.

Crowley had never been made to rule. To tempt and manipulate, yes, those were his original delegations, but never to command others. Never to accept and become even more corrupted by the taste of having _power_ over others. It made him rash, illogical, and arrogant.

He was becoming as bad as Lucifer himself, and the Devil himself was made to be an arrogant twat.

Fingernails gorged deep into his scalp breaking skin, his limbs shaking with a need to break something, to _hurt_ and in the most painful way imaginable —

_Come now, you're making a scene._ A different voice this time, more familiar than his own and one that he had been longing to hear for _ages_.

_That's it, calm down, my dear._

"Shut up, you are not real. You're dead or worse, quit telling me what to do when you aren't even here!"

_Of course I am not here, you know that already._

Of course Crowley knew that. Knew that the smirk Alastair had painted on his face when he came to tell Crowley that he had helped him with a personal problem that had been around for millennia was the demon's way of laughing at him, especially when Aziraphale had called him barely minutes later.

Crowley could still remember the screams, still picture Aziraphale's precious bookshelves crashing as angels stormed the second hand bookstore that the angel had called home, dragging an unwilling ex- Principality by his locks back to heaven, never to let back down to Earth.

Crowley hadn't heard from him since.

_That doesn't mean you should ignore me, dear._

"Yes, it does, actually. You are just a figment of my ever growing insanity, come to torture me for some reason or the other. Now that I've uncovered your dirty little secret, get the sodding hell out!" Crowley bellowed, his voice echoing in the empty room.

It was blissfully silent for a few moments.

_Very well. But you really should drink your tea before it gets cold. Nasty stuff, that._

Crowley threw the mug hard against the wall; fragments of ceramic flying from the force and the liquid inside staining the floor.

He keened, misery surrounding him.

The mug had been a gift from Aziraphale nearly forty-seven years ago for an anniversary of their Arrangement. It was the last thing the demon had of the angel that had provided him comfort throughout the long millennia of being stationed to Earth.

He began to pick up all of the pieces, ignoring the cuts and gashes his hands were receiving from his hurried gathering.

Even if everything else in his life had been shattered, this was one thing he might be able to put back together.

Maybe.


End file.
